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WAIFS 
FROM  THE 
WAYSIDE. 


BY 


5 


VERNON  REVIER, 

CbtXtiM*-  d*  HuujeAc- 

One  ot  the  Free  and  Independ-  ^ 
ent  Order  oi  Tramps,  a  Hobo  ot 


the  Highlands. 


September  1 923. 


t 


CARE  V.  L.  EDWARDS. 
BURN-VILLE,  N.  C. 


TO  WAIFS  OF  THE  WAYSIDE. 


The  Captious  Critic's  comment,  likely  enough, 
would  be;  the  proper  Preface  to  any  collection  of 
Verse  by  one  not  even  included  in  the  Who-Whos 
(and  that  is  largely  a  list  of  the  Little)  should  be 
an  abject  Apology  for  trespassing  on  the  patience 
of  a  Public,  engaged  in  the  more  serious  task  of 
Politics  or  Profiteering,  as  the  firs*  gives  us  our 
glorious  Constitution,  and  the  second  our  Gilded 
Captains  of  Industry. 

If  I  were  offering  a  volume  of  ‘  Vers  Fibres,”  or  of 
Capitalized  Prose  (chop’d  into  chunks,  and  a  “Cap¬ 
ital  letter’’  heading  eacli  line),  I  should  “plead 
guilty,”  return  to  my  plow  and  patch-and-pittance: 
Jbut  after  all,  I  believe  even  monkeying  with  the 
I iMtise,”  a  far  more  innocent  employment  than  cub 
lltivating  wholesale  murder,  and  not  whole-souled 
^millionaires,  which  sterns  to  be  now,  the  chief  In- 
lldustries  of  our  sanctified  CHRISTIAN  CIVILIZA¬ 
TION. 

Besides  how  are  we  to  discover  who  are  the  Lau¬ 
reates,  and  who  the  “Lame  Ducks”;  unless  we  give 
even  the  Parvenus  a  chance  to  show  whether  they 
should  be  admitted  into  the  ranks  oi  the  Patricians 
I  or  not?  Il  all  the  Begin  ners  black  ball'd,  there 
might  be  some  “mute  inglorious  millions”  excluded 
along  with  the  SHINING  SHAM'S  self-glorification, 

I  heard  above  the  roofs  of  the  world. — If  the  Crown*, 
ed  Critics  had  had  their  way,  Keats,  Byron,  Fitz¬ 
gerald;  indeed  some  of  our  noblest  Poets  would 

4  ^ 


1)2 


have  long  sisce  “been  out  of  print.”  In  fact  one  of4 
the  noteworthy  things  in  studying  the  Literary 
Oracles  of  the  Past;  is  to  discover  how  many  “Lame 
Ducks”  turned  out  to  be  “Swans”;  and  what  a  large 
number  of  patronized  Parai/ons  turned  out  to  be 
only  presumptuous  Poetasters. 

However,  I  shall  frankly  confess,  Poetry,  like 
Music,  can’t  well  be  standardized ;  both  depend 
largely  on  Ear.  Tho’  I  may  amuse  myself  Wrest¬ 
ling  with  Rhyme,  I  believe  it  takes  intellectual  fac¬ 
ulties  of  a  higher  sort  to  compose  really  Fine  Prose, 
than  it  does  to  write  Beautiful  Poetry,  as  the  last 
depends  largely  on  Sound,  and  the  first  so  much 
more  on  Sense.  In  my  Philosophy,  which  is  essen¬ 
tially  Pe ri pate  tie.  (1  am  a  far  more  enthusiastic 
Rambler  than  Phi/ mm-),  Sense  is  very  much  more 
important  than  Sound:  yet  just  as  the  Pope*  pre¬ 
tend  to  be  “Vicars  of  Christ”,  so  does  every  little 
“Doctor  of  Ditties,”  pretend  to  be  an  inspired  Proph¬ 
et  loaded  up  with  metrical  messages  from  Paradise 
as  well  as  Parnassus.  They  remind  me  always  of 
those  Angelic  Asses— the  Sour  Saints,  who  claim 
to  be  both  more  Sensible  and  more  Sober  than  their 
Own  Savior.  As  a  Singer,  I  shall  not  deny  I  have 
worshiped  at  the  Shrine  of  Saint  Sauterne;  but  that 
by  no  means  proves  that  I  am  a  Saloon  Soaker. 
Like  Jesus,  I  hold  that  Temperance  is  moderation, 
not  mania.  Fanatics  are  always  Intemperate,  In¬ 
tolerant  and  Fools:— with  due  apologies  to  Wm.  J. 
B.  and  Volstead,  the  Virtuous.  Even  St.  Peter 
showed  that  he  prefered  Punch  to  Pills;  and  I  dare 
to  hope  some  "punch”  will  be  found  in  my  prose, 
even  if  my  verses  pot  very  vinous. 


c3 

But  “to  return  my  muttons,”  as  my  old  friends  in 
the  “Students  Quarter”  would  say,  when  1  die  (as 
an  American,  tho’  by  no  means  100  percent)  I  hope 
to  go  to  Paris  instead  of  Paradise;  and  perhaps  that 
is  the  real  reason  why,  tho’  a  Sinner,  I  dread  death 
less  than  the  Saints.  At  any  rate,  when  ailing,  I 
find  the  D.  D.  s  always  in  a  hurry  to  hunt  up  the 
Doctor; — I  only  when  the  exasperating  Aches  begin: 
but  luckily  thus  far,  if  my  Acres  are  few,  so  are  my 
u aches;”  despite  the  fact  that  I  love  now  and  then 
a  “sip,”  — but  I  detest  a  “soak.”  No  doubt  most  of 
those  passionate  Prohibitionists  are  Repentant  Ram 
Roosters:  and  can’t  believe  that  the  vast  majority 
of  Human  Beings  are  not  Misfits,  or  Maniacs.  De¬ 
generates  can’t  believe  in  Decencg. 

When  you  find  a  fellow  with  the  true  Plymouth 
Rock  Passion  for  prying  into  one’s  Neighbors’  pri¬ 
vacies; — it  is  the  Trickster,  who  believing  himself 
a  good  deal  better  than  most,  convinced  nearly  ev¬ 
erybody  else  is  tricky. 

In  conclusion,  I  wish  to  say,  that  I  do  not  pretend 
that  my  verses  are  Inspired;  in  fact  I  don’t  believe 
what  most  folks  call  Genius  is  anything  but  Intel¬ 
ligence,  aided  by  Imagination,  some  Energy  and 
an  enjoyment  of  Real  Hard  Work.  Frankly  I  prefer 
Rambling  to  Writing,  not  exactly  the  Plough  to  the 
Pen  ( Dam  Ploughing) ,  but  put  me  in  the  Wild 
Woods  (not  the  burlesque  wilderness  of  a  “Walden 
Pond,”  2  miles  from  a  village  and  200  yards  from  a 
R.  R.  line )  with  a  good  axe,  and  a  mountain  like 
“Whitesides,”  (only  4950  ft.,  but  grandest  Precipice 
East  of  “Rockeys’’)  Is  unday ga,  to  climb  by  the 
sometimes  risky  “U.  G.”  Trail;  well,  honestly  that  is 
what  I  prefer  to  Parnassus,  even  to  Paris;— and 
potage-  a  la  Usque, 


cl 


As  I  am  having  my  Rhymes  (call  them  rubbish, 
if  you  will,  that  will  not  rutile  me)  printed,  it  would 
be  affectation  to  pretend,  I  do  not  like  my  own 
progeny ,  more  truly  my  own  “creations,”  than  those 
little  “kids,”  that  proud  mamas  love  to  send  for  an 
airing  on  some  fashionable  promenade,  decorated 
in  their  best  bib  and  tucker,  even  if  they  are,  (as 
often)  pug-nosed,  pimple  faced  and  far  more  red 
than  than  rosy. 

One  thing  is  certain,  even  if  my  Pets  spanked  by 
the  Proud  Critics  (privately  no  doubt  I  will  say, 
they  are  a  Dam  site  more  cross  than  Crowned) — 
they  will  never  kick  and  squall;  but  whatever  they 
may  think,  will,  between  covers,  keep  discreetly 
silent.  I  propose  giving  my  “pugs”  a  show  too  on 
the  Promenade. 

But  look  out,  you  Literary  Lordl.inys;—l\  am 
somewhat  of  an  expert  as  a  IS  harp- shooter,  and  tho’ 
it  may  be  only  a  Popgun,  I  have  set  a  whole  village 
shire  ring  with  Shame,  tho  my  Ammunition  only 
Squibs  and  Lampoon* :  the  Explosion  however  sug¬ 
gested  “T.N.T.”— ' There  is  one  excuse  I  cannot  give 
for  thus  rashly,  perhaps,  Plunging  into  Print:  most 
Beginners  so  Bashful  nothing  could  induce  them  to 
let  their  Maidenly  Muse  show  her  shy  shins  in  pub¬ 
lic,  but  Admiring  Friend *  have  pushed  and  persisted 
and  persuaded.  My  Friends  not  only  few  and  far 
between,  but  I  never  bored  them  with  my  Balladry; 
and  as  to  my  own  Family,  they  are  so  eminently 
respectable,  they  would  socially  lose  caste  (at  least 
in  the  South)  if  even  a  “Laureate”  discovered 

loose  in  their  Lot.  VERNON  REVIER, 

of  the  “F,  I.  0.  T.” 


1 


METRICAL  MAY  TIME! 


Through  all  the  bleak  season  when  it  snows, 
Content  am  I  with  just  plain  prose, 

I  stick  to  facts  and  slight  all  fiction; 

Rut  when  the  Spring  its  bliss  bestows, 

Ar  d  gardens  gathering  rose  after  rose, 
Somehow  again  poetic  diction 
Begins  at  once  its  old  time  powers, 

Once  more  I’m  lured  by  lilting  lines, 
Once  more  I  pray  at  Fancy’s  shrines, 
And  Time  brings  back  idyllic  hours. 

My  only  tears  are  April  Showers, 

I  read  the  leaves  of  boughs — not  books, 
Find  rhymes  in  all  the  running  brooks, 
And  so  the  joyous  May-time  dowers 

My  life  with  songs  the  glad  birds  sing 
Through  all  the  revelries  of  Spring. 


Rosary  of  Rid  ges. 


2 


MY  CALENDAR  OF  FLOWERS! 

I  mark  the  fickle  llight  of  Time 
Not  by  years — months — clays  or  hours: 

My  chronicles  I  write  in  rh>me, 

My  Calendar  is  one  of — Flowers. 

When  Epigea’s  blushes  show 
I  know  ihat  March  winds  blustering  blow ; 
When  Dog-woods  whiten  day  by  day 
Shy  April’s  woo’d  by  warmer  May. 

In  June  red  Roses  at  tluor  best 
And  July  shows  on  many  a  crest 
The  Chestnuts  billowing  into  foam  ; 

And  Poppies  crown  the  Harvest  Home. 

The  glint  of  Golden-rod  betrays 
The  coming  of  Autumnal  Days, 

And  when  the  woods  grow  sere  and  sober 
Still  purpling  Asters  check  October. 

After  that,  even  in  bleak  November, 

Though  now  we  light  the  friendly  ember, 

Still  by  the  road-side’s  russet  green 
The  modest  Chick-weed’s  stars  are  seen. 

Though  wild  the  winds  November  sends, 

Not  even  then  my  Flowering  Record  ends, 
For— where  unfettered  brooks  still  leap, 
Behold  the  Gentian’s  blue  eyes  shyly  peep. 

Then  Christmas  time,  forever  merry, 

Shall  bring  the  Holly’s  crimson  berry, 

And  despite  even  New  Year’s  snow. 

Witch  Hazel’s  gold  and  pearls  of  Mistletoe. 

So  thus  my  Records  ever  run, 

With  flowers  to  greet  all  friendly  comers; 
Lie— who  would  doubts  and  darkness  shun, 
Winters  forgets— and  counts  by— Summers. 


3 

TO  THE  COMMON  CHICK-WEED! 


Stellaria — star-wort— fitter  name 
Than  many  prouder  flowers  can  claim, 

For  Botanists  prefer  to  brand 
With  labels  none  can  understand. 

They  best  love  Burials  of  Bloom. 

The  fairest  flowers  in  the  gloom 
Of  some  Herbarium  ever  thrust, 

With  Latin  epitaphs  to  bless  their  dust. 

Tho’  now  no  longer  Asters  gleam, 

No  Gentians  blue  by  winding  stream, 

And  Roses  long  ago  have  died 
In  gardens  where  rare  Violets  hide : 

Tho’  vain  Narcissus  nods  in  sleep, 

No  Daisies  thro’  green  grasses  peep, 

Nor  Alders  their  brown  tassels  hang 
By  brooks  where  the  cat-bird  sang  ; 

By  russet  hedge — or  rugged  hill 

The  modest  Chick-weed  blossoms  still,— 

Fair  white  stars  that  twinkling  show 
Beside  the  foot-falls  of  the  snow. 

The  “Daisies  daring”  poets  sing, 

But  they  bide  cautioudy  ’til  Spring, 

Yet  here,  thro’  Winters’s  wildest  hours, 
You’ll  find  the  Chick-weed’s  modest  flowers. 

Proud  Laureates  spurn  thee  as  a  weed, 

But  I,  whose  songs  no  grand  folks  read, 

A  singer  of  rough,  rustic  ways 
Dare  give  thee  of  my  pittance — praise. 

This  wee.  small  weed,  that  dares  the  snow, 
Still  glad  and  green  tho’  wild  winds  blow, 

If — like  my  songs  no  fame  hath  won — 

We  both  still  get  our  share  of  Sun. 


4 


Our  “Share  of  Sun,”  and  if  dark  days 
O’er-shadow  oft  our  wintry  ways, 

We  both  can  bide  the  Coming  Spring, 

For  you  shall  flower  and  I  shall  sing. 

Nor  need  we  trouble  if  the  throng 
Forgets  your  flowers  and  my  song  ; 

If  the  Gods  give  but  sun-lit  days 
We  shall  not  miss  a  blind  world’s  praise. 

Fortune’s  rich  gifts  oft  dearly  paid, 

And  even  Fame — like  flowers  must  fade; 
What  sweeter  dreams  could  Hope  invent 
Than  lives  made  happy  by  — Content? 

So  you  and  I  shall  go  our  gait, 

Nor  envy  once  the  Gilded  Great  , 

And  if  the  days  but  sunshine  bring, 

Then  you  shall  flower — and  I  shall  sing. 

% 

It  ate,  Envy,  Doubts  and  harrowing  Care 
The  Palaces  of  Earth  shall  share; 

Tlio’  bleak  winds  blight  the  proudest  rose 
The  Chick-weed’s  stars  still  dare  the  snows. 

The  sun  that  gilds  the  king’s  high  halls 
As  brightly  on  my  Cabin  falls; 

Peace,  a  more  gracious  gift  than  Power, 

So  I  shall  sing— and  you  shall  flower. 

No  marble  halls  my  shelter  now, 

No  “laurels”  proud  adorn  my  brow; 

This  Chick-weed  at  my  cabin  door 
Best  fits  a  Woodland  Troubadour. 

Yet  modest  as  thy  merit  seems, 

Thy  blooms  shall  out-last  all  life’s  dreams, 
When  even  Fame  forgotten  long, 

Thy  stars  survive  the  Laureate  s  Song 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  HAPPY  ISLES! 


Long  leagues  from  land,  in  sight  no  strand, 
What  seek  ye  on  the  Silent  Sea? 

No  silvery  beach  these  billows  reach 

Though  winds  are  blowing  fresh  and  free; 

Through  cloudy  drifts  no  headland  lifts 
Its  rocky  crests  to  meet  the  skies, 

Beyond  the  roar  of  waves  no  shore 
Within  the  ken  of  keenest  eyes. 

No  drifted  dunes  fence  dark  lagoons, 

No  palm  trees  quiver  in  the  breeze; 

For  days  and  weeks  no  rugged  peaks 
Rise  dim  above  these  empty  seas; 

Your  yearning  eyes  may  sweep  the  skies, 
From  East  to  West  from  North  to  South, 

Yet  gleams  in  sight  no  beacon’s  light. 

The  pilot  finds  no  harbor’s  mouth. 

To  Love’s  fair  isles  how  many  miles? 

What  ength  of  leagues,  how  can  I  say? 

Your  pilot  Hope  might  blindly  grope 
A  thousand  and  yet  miss  the  way. 

His  flag  unfurled  defies  the  world 
Of  warring  water  near  and  far. 

And  through  the  drift  of  clouds  that  lift 
He  smiling  marks  Faith’s  Polar  Star; 

A  bright  sign  set  to  show  that  yet 
Love  hath  a  guide  beyond  this  life. 

An  Eden  Land  on  whose  far  strand 
The  billows  never  break  in  strife; 

Where  flowery  calms  beneath  the  palms 
Welcome  the  storm-tossed  wanderer  home, 

And  Beauty’s  breast  allures  to  rest 
The  heart  that  never  more  shall  roam. 


6 


0,  hearts  of  fire  that  never  tire, 

That  storms  nor  seas  can  daunt  or  break, 
Spread  your  bold  sail  to  every  gale, 

And  follow  love  for  love’s  own  sake; 

Your  guiding  star  still  gleams  afar, 

No  land  to  North — South — East  or  West, 
But  no  waves  whelm  with  Hope  at  helm, 
And  storms  at  last  shall  sink  to  rest. 

Though  levins  leap  and  billows  sweep, 
Though  shoreless  still  the  deeps  may  roll. 
No  happier  fate  than  thus  to  shape 
Life’s  course  toward  the  Golden  Goal ; 

A  Heaven  exempt  from  Gods  that  tempt 
With  fruits  forbidden  of  blind  desire; 
Where  Mercy,  and  not  Hate,  shall  stand 
To  open  wide  the  gates  of  Fire. 

Who  never  shall  never  share 

The  highest  gifts  the  Heavens  grant; 

No  timid  soul  can  reach  the  goal. 

But  Death  the  Bravest  cannot  daunt: 
When  far — not  near  shines  Glory’s  Star, 
When  threaten  storms  to  overwhelm. 
And  thro  the  dark  no  Beacons  spark, 

’Tis  then— the  Hero — finds  the  Helm. 


MORE  “GRACE”  THAN  “GRUB”. 

Oh,  Lord  we  thank  thee  in  advance, 
For  this — perhaps  our  only  chance, 
And  whether  fat,  or  whether  lean, 
Or  whether  tender,  Lord,  or  tough, 
After  we’ve  licked  the  platter  clean, 
Thank  heaven,  if  only  half  enough. 


7 


LAKE  ESTELLE,  FLORIDA. 

Green  glooms  are  the  orange  groves  yonder 
In  whose  dusk  shine  stars  fragrant  and  fair; 

My  fancies  no  further  would  wander 

Than  these  shores,  where  the  mid-winters  wear 
Half  the  tints  of  the  summers  that  faded 
To  gold  when  November  grew  sere; 

Even  March  with  sweet  blossoms  is  braided, 

And  April  sheds  never  a  tear. 

m 

Not.  yet  show  cur  laurels  their  lustre 
That  rivals  the  lily’s  white  gleam, 

But  March  cometh  soon,  you  may  trust  her 
To  ripen  the  buds  that  still  dream; 

Only  dream  of  the  days  that  are  burning 
With  blossoms  still  hushed  into  sleep., 

Winter  ends,  and  with  April’s  returning 
The  South  wind  breathes  over  the  deep. 

The  Loltees  and  Lurlines,  that  coward 
In  gray  grottoes  deep  under  the  waves 
Now,  knowing  that  Jessamines  have  flower’d, 
Catch  glimpses  far  down  in  their  caves 
Of  the  sun’s  golden  showers  that  stipple 
Their  dusk  with  a  dusting  of  stars, 

As  they  hark  to  the  lilt  of  the  ripple 
That  breaks  into  song  on  the  bars 
Of  silvering  sands,  close  embracing 
The  bluest  of  heavens  that  tell 
Every  blossom  and  bower  enlacing 
The  green  girdled  shores  of  Estelle. 

Beneath  the  wide  fans  of  Palmettoes 
Let  us  dream  of  the  shadows  that  woo; 

The  Yucca  unsheathes  his  stilettoes 
To  guard  us  from  Hates  that  pursue; 


8 


Shut  out  the  bleak  North  with  its  wailing 
Of  tempest,  its  turmoil  and  tears, 

Spread  our  sails  to  soft  winds;  we  are  sailing 
With  Love,  Hope  the  pilot  who  steers, 

And  Heaven  perchance  is  the  Haven; 

If  not,  there  are  Edens  below, 

Though  the  soul  that  is  cautious  and  craven 
May  miss  the  gifts  Godheads  bestow. 

See,  there  in  the  deep  as  it  darkles 
Bluer  skies  than  the  heavens  above, 

Far  under  the  firmament  sparkles; 

Plunge  in,  win  some  Loltee — and  Love; 

What  is  death  but  the  end  of  our  dreamings? 

This  guides  to  the  Dawning  of  Days 
That  bring  us,  not  life’s  sordid  schemings, 

But  the  Deed  that  no  doubting  delays. 

Here  we  grope  in  a  gray  world  of  visions. 

Loves  and  hopes  that  but  flower  to  fade; 

But  There — are  the  homes  of  Elysians, 

And  Doubt  and  Despair  stand  dismayed. 
Green  girdled  thy  shores  that  surround  me, 

Lake  Estelle,  with  Palmettoe  and  Pine; 

Here  no  fears  and  no  phantoms  have  found  me, 
Only  Loltees  and  Lurlines  divine. 

Magnolias  gleam  darkly  above  me. 

But  her  "laurels”  I  leave  to  Estelle; 

Not  Glory,  but  the  Graces  shall  love  me 
If  I  woo,  not  too  wisely,  but  well. 

See,  down  in  the  clear  depths  far  under 
There  open  blue  heavens  of  bliss  ! 

If  the  Deeps  woo’d  me  down  would  I  sunder 
From  the  lures  of  a  Lost  World  like  this? 


9 


THE  REQUIEM  OF  REST ! 

To-day  so  full  of  life  and  lust; 
To-morrow — only  dust  to  dust. 

To-day  a  world  to  have  and  hold; 
To-morrow  under  graveyard  mould. 
To-day  a  world  of  wealth  for  spending; 
To  morrow  empty  hands  for  lending. 
To-day  life’s  share  of  bliss  and  bloom; 
To-morrow  Lethe’s  shores  of  gloom. 
To-day  both  sighs  and  laughter  blent. 
To-morrow  Silence  eloquent. 

To-day  the  lips  that  bid  Love  come; 

To  morrow  even  Hope  grows  dumb. 
To-day  a  thousand  plans  and  schemes: 
To-morrow  sleep  too  deep  for  dreams. 
To-day  the  question  and  the  quest; 
To-morrow  unremember’d  Rest. 

To-day  life’s  vigil  still  to  keep; 
To-morrow  an  unbroken  sleep. 

To-day  the  shadows  that  increase; 
To-morrow  an  unending  peace. 

To-day  Life  conquers,  so  Love  saith; 
To-morrow— victory  in  death. 

To  day  dim  Hopes  of  things  afar; 
To-morrow— is  it  but  Hope’s  star? 
To-day  the  struggle  of  caged  wings; 
To-morrow  — what  Tomorrow  brings  ! 
To-day  its  share  of  sighs  and  sorrow; 
The  Requiem  of  Rest  -Tomorrow  ! 


10 


TUMBLIN’  FUN! 

Came  ever  a  merrier,  madder  brook 
From  rocky  niche  in  a  mountain  nook? 

And  slipping  and  sliding,  how  it  shook 
Its  silvering  sides  with  laughter, 

Growing  ever  daft  and  dafter, 

As  out  of  the  Shadow  into  the  Sun, 

With  a  lissom  leap  came — Tumblin’  Fun. 

Where  the  firstling  flash  of  its  fountain  gushes 
The  Nyxies  have  woven  a  cradle  of  rushes, 

And  above  where  many  a  foam-flake  swims 
The  Naiads  have  knotted  green  leaves  and  limbs, 

Wh^re  over  the  cascades  dancing  snows, 

Lo!  the  blush  of  the  Appalachian  Rose;— 

And  twisting  and  turning.  —  and  chuckling  and 
churning, 

Out  of  the  Shadows  into  the  Sun, 

As  wild  as  Wine  comes — Tumblin  Fun. 

i 

He  comes  with  a  writhe  and  a  wriggle 
From  under  the  flowers  and  ferns; 

With  a  gush  and  a  gurgle — and  giggle, 

He  twists,  and  twines  and  turns; — 

And  as  you  look,  and  listen, 

See  the  eddies  that  gleam  and  glisten, 

And  under  the  ledges  grim  and  gray 
Mark  the  flying  stream  as  it  sweeps  away 
Into  milky  mist  where  the  Rainbows  Bridge 
Spans  the  sunless  shadows  from  ridge  to  ridge. 

*  *  * 

Now  Tumblin’  Fun,  with  his  race  half  out, 

Takes  a  longer  leap  with  a  louder  shout, 

Over  the  verge  of  the  giddiest  crags, 

Wher«  the  sheeted  foam  like  torn  battle  flags, 


11 


Hangs  like  a  hawk  on  warring  wings; 

With  a  cry  like  the  echoeing  thunder  flings; 

So  the  giddy  dance  down  the  gorges  steep. 

Like  the  fall  of  an  Alpine  avalanche. 

Of  white  thunders  that  seem  to  shiver  and  blanche, 
Yet  never  a  pause,  as  it  plunges  deep 
Into  the  depths  where  dark  shadows  sleep, 

Dusky  and  dim  at  the  sunniest  noon — 

As  when  stars  at  night  outshine  the  moon : 

Down  from  the  towering  heights  above, 

Like  a  lover  leaping  to  greet  his  love, — 

Out  of  the  glitter  into  the  gloom — 

Where  echoes  linger  and  phantoms  loom, — 

With  half  of  his  league-long  life  out-run, 

Comes,  wrestling  with  rainbows, — Tumblin’  Fun. 

There  out  of  the  gloom  and  into  the  glow. 

Wearing  above  him  wreaths  of  snow 
(Stainless  plumes  in  the  dauntless  crest 
Of  the  fearless  Knight,  who  hath  battled  oest , ) 
Thro’  the  widening  ravine  where  the  hemlock  spires 
Catch  the  last  farewell  of  the  Sunset  fires; — 

When  the  level  meadows  are  green  with  grass. 

And  broader  reaches  the  blue  skies  glass;  — 

Where  lances  of  Maize,  shake  gay  tassels  over 
Cardinal  flowers,  and  fields  of  clover : 

As  over  the  banks  you  lean  and  listen 
To  the  ripples  that  gurgle,  and  gleam,  and  glisten 
You  can  hear  this  wonderful  mountain  Elf 
Chaffing  and  chuckling  to  himself, 

Toying  and  joying  with  every  bud. 

That  mirrors  her  beauty  in  his  flood. 


12 


Thus  comes  Tumblin’  Fun  from  the  mountain  spires 
That  first  catch  the  kindling  of  the  Dawn’s  faint 
fires  ; 

With  a  league-long  race  that  never  flags. 

Under  the  hemlocks  and  over  the  crags, — 

Down  to  the  placid  pools  where  swim 
The  Nixies  and  Nymphs  that  wait  for  him: 

Now  kissing  the  Violet’s  blue  eyes  unchidden, 

Tho’  under  leafed  lids  so  shyly  they’re  hidden; 
Mocking  and  mirroring  cliffs  of  Cloudland,  and  Skies, 
Whispering  Tales  to  the  Trout  where  he  lies, 

Or  in  Fields  of  the  Fairies,  not  forbidden — , 

Jostles  the  Gentians,  to  open  their  eyes. 

Thus  ever  heedless  and  headstrong  still, 

With  never  a  thought  of  Miller  or  Mill; 

Half  forgotten  his  race  down  the  ridges — 

As  he  slyly  slips  under  green  banks  and  gray 
bridges ; 

So  onward, — sunning  himself  the  while, 

His  wild  laughter  melting  now  into  a  smile; 

The  rioting  over,  so  near  is  the  rest, 

That  the  lily-pads  hardly  are  rocked  on  his  breast; 
And  the  reaches  still  winding  and  widening — 
glass 

The  blue  of  the  heavens  and  clouds  as  they  pass: — 
So  with  his  race  so  nearly  run, — 

Riverward  twinkling,  with  never  an  inkling 
Of  the  turning  of  wheels,  or  the  work  to  be  done. 
Half-sleeping,  and  creeping,  glides — 

Tumblin’  Fun. 


13 


CUPID  CRUCIFIED ! 

f  strive  to  paint  in  fitting  shape 
The  fancies  of  Love’s  earlier  time, 

But  still  the  richest  tints  escape 
1  That  bravely  colored  passion’s  prime  ; 

I  cannot  catch  the  golden  gleams 
That  lit  the  paths  that  lovers  trod. 

And  all  those  olden  hopes  and  dreams 
Lie  buried  under  flowerless  sod. 

The  lips  that  Faith  once  deified 

Have  long  since  wedded  been  to  dust, 
And  Cupid  hath  been  crucified, 

And  hearts  have  felt  Hate’s  dagger  thrust 
Remembrance  is  our  deepest  ill. 

And  endless  life  were  endless  loss, 

For  Love,  the  God,  is  writhing  still 
In  agonies  upon  the  Cross. 

Happy  the  clown  whose  hunger  needs 
Only  the  flesh-pots,  not  the  fire. 

Who  only  sows  the  common  seeds 
That  ripen  into  coarse  Desire: — 

Were  Passion  but  a  flower’s  flame 
Up  shooting  from  the  sun-kissed  clod, 
Lust’s  gifts  were  all  we’d  care  to  claim. 
Whilst  mocking  Love, — a  Jealous  God. 

But  shun  the  Sirens  subtle  snare, 

Their  lures  to  loss  will  surely  lead  ; 

Ever  of  Jealous  Gods  beware, 

Their  blisses  make  the  blind  Iveart  bleed  : 
As  Christ  with  mortal  agonies  quailed 
Between  two  felons  crucified, 

So  Cupid  on  a  Cross  is  nailed 

With  Thievish  Lusts  on  either  side. 


14 


Doubt  the  God  whose  commandments  bring 
The  rankling  stings  of  endless  woes ; 
Edens,  where  Eves  like  Sirens  sing, 
v  Show  crowns  of  thorns  on  every  Rose  : 
Safer  life’s  toiling,  than  the  toils 
False  beauties  weave  to  mesh  poor  man; 
Around  each  kiss  a  serpent  coils, 

And  every  bliss  brings  some  new  ban. 


Mirth  is  a  monarch  debonair. 

With  laughter  laid  upon  his  lips  ; 

Hope,  too,  Joy’s  cast  off  robes  may  wear. 
And  Faith  forgets  Fate’s  scorpion  whips  : 
But  Love  is  the  Lost  Thief  deified 
By  lunatics  in  love  with  loss; 

Cupid  at  best,  though  crucified, 

Is  but  -  a  Coxcomb  on  a  Cross ! 


Foolish  lover,  mark  me,  this  the  Sages  tell, 
Worship  woman  wisely,  but  if  wisely,  not  too 
well. 

If  you  follow  the  tested  text  I  preach, 

You’ll  trust  but  as  far  as  your  arms  can  reach: 
For  there’s  nothing  more  fair,  more  fickle, 
more  fond — 

Than  a  darling  Brunette  than  a  dainty 
Blonde. 


15 

LUCK  S  LITANY. 


Past  troubles  forgetting,  future  trials  unsought. 

Let  us  live  unregretting  and  banish  vain  thought: 
Tis  the  moment  that  brings  us  every  gift  that  adorns 
If  even  to-morrow  only  harvests  of  thorns. 

No  victor  can  vanquish  the  conqueror — Death. 

So  waste  not  in  wailing  what's  left  us  of  breath; 
Take  the  first  kisses  proffered,  sip  the  bumpers  that 
brim. 

For  to-morrow  the  Grave  opens — narrow  and  grim. 

If  Sorrow  and  Pleasure  both  vanish  so  fast. 

Whilst  luck  gives  me  leisure  let  11s  love  to  the  last; 
No  treasures  like  Pleasure’s,  no  wisdom  like  wine. 

If  Reason  but  measures  the  gifts  that  combine — 


The  most  sweet  with  least  sour:  Though  the  Gods 
must  be  paid. 

Would  you  trample  Hope's  Flower  just  because  it 
must  fade? 

Will  you  sulk  through  the  Summers  because  Winters 
are  cold? 

Trust  me,  often  new-comers  better  friends  than  the 
old. 

If  the  sun  shines  to-day  be  content  with  the  gift 

Though  to-morrow  me  gray  of  the  gloom  shall  not  lift; 

If  after  June’s  roses  December's  snows  fall, 

April's  blossom  uncloses  at  last  for  us  all. 

And  if  there’s  an  ending  to  all  of  life’s  bliss. 

"Why  stint  less  your  spending,  and  gather  in  this 

Short  respite  the  Gods  give,  what  harvest  we  may:- 

See,  even  the  clods  live  in  Lowers  to-day. 

So  snatch  from  the  hours  a  kiss  to  cure  sighs: 

To-day  is  still  ours  though  to-morrow  Love  dies; 

If  Youth  be  so  fleeting,  if  Life  be  so  grim. 

Though  this  the  last  meeting,  fill  Hope  s  cup  to  the 
brim. 


16 


Just  because  Love  is  fickle  welcome  all  that  he 
brings. 

And  don’t  fool  with  Time’s  sickle,  for  that  too  has 
stings; 

If  quite  sure  that  to-morrow  our  lips  shall  be  dumb, 
To-day  let  us  borrow  Hope’s  joys  as  they  come. 

If  a  Heaven  were  surely  the  goal  of  life’s  race 
We  might  bide  more  securely,  and  trust  to  God's 
grace; 

But  as  at  life’s  ending  we  know  but  dumb  Death, 
Why  stint  not  your  spending  as  long  as  there’s  breath; 

• 

Nor  miss  present. pleasures  for  the  dubious  bliss 
Of  those  heavenly  treasures  the  Saints,  too,  may 
miss; 

Indeed  if  all  Priests  to  this  Paradise  go 

Then  there’s  even  more  need  for  some  blisses  below, 

i 

For  that  must  be  ever  a  tiresome  place 
Where  Saints  only  endeavor  to  illustrate  grace 
By  drawing  long  faces,  and  building  a  fence 
To  bar  out  all  traces  of  good- feeling  and  sense. 

If  the  promised  Hereafter  is  ready  so  grim, 

No  love  and  no  laughter,  only  hymn  after  hymn, 

As  the  sole  dispensation,  whilst  still  we  have  breath 
Here  claim  compensation,  and  tickle  Old  Death. 

We’ll  crown  him  with  roses  until  life  is  spent, 

And  when  the  game  closes  perhaps  he'll  relent, 

And  give  us  some  showing  in  a  world  riot  much 
worse 

Than  this,  where  Luck’s  sowing,  not  always  a  curse. 

The  Sins  I  repent  are  the  harmless  joys  missed. 

The  pleasures  neglected,  the  kind  lips  unkissed; 

And  if  a  Hereafter,  and  a  good  God  above. 

His  mandate  is  Peace,  and  his  mission  is  love. 


17 

NEW  YEARS  AND  OLD 

’Tis  Merry  Christmas,  so  they  say, 

As  such  on  faith  I’ll  take  it. 

Though  ’tis  to  me  as  sad  a  day 
As  memory  can  make  it; 

Bright  visions  of  the  Past  arise, 

And  my  sad  heart  remembers 
The  hopes  and  fears,  the  smiles  and  sighs 
Of  all  those  dead  Decembers. 

’Twere  vain  to  hang  the  mistletoe. 

No  lips  beneath  it  meeting 
Will  e?er  recall  the  Long  ago 

When  happy  hearts  were  beating; 

Both  faith  in  Heaven  and  trust  in  Love 
I  then  had,  but  ’tis  over; 

In  those  days  I  was  hand  and  glove 
With  Luck,  and  lived  in  clover. 

I  had  a  Chateau  (’twas  in  Spain), 

And  hopes  and  hearts  in  plenty, 

But  things  have  gone  against  the  grain 
Since  I  was  one  and  twenty. 

Blind  Hope  has  learned  at  last  to  doubt, 
And  Love  wields  scorpion  lashes; 

Too  soon  the  Yule  Log  glimmers  out, 

And  leaves  me  only  ashes. 

For  those  who  have  both  fires  and  furs 
The  Christmas  Days  seem  jolly, 

But  in  my  cold  heart  memory  stirs 
And  makes  me  melancholy; 

No  gobbler  shall  I  gobble  up, 

Nor  mince-pies  mince  thereafter, 

Whilst  filling  high  the  crystal  cup 
With  champaigne’s  liquid  laughter. 


18 


But  though  the  Christmas  chimes  awoke 
Faint  echoes  of  past  pleasures, 

The  New  Years  that  iny  dreams  evoke 
Are  full  of  old  time  treasures, 

Hope’s  H;  ppy  New  Year,  whose  dawn  breaks 
After  Doubts  dark  December, 

Shall  bring  me  every  gift  that  makes 
Hearts  willing  to  remember. 

Beneath  unfading  mistletoe 
I  claim  unfailing  favors 
Still  the  old  roses  bud  and  blow, 

The  old  love  never  wavers; 

Again  my  heart  takes  holiday, 

And  learns  from  Faith  to  borrow 
The  little  (that  is  “much”)  to  pay 
The  debts  we  owe  to-morrow. 

Criss  Kringle  may  leave  empty  socks, 

And  Christmas  wear  no  holly, 

But  faith  fears  not  the  storms  and  shocks 
That  wreck  more  reckless  Folly. 

0,  glad  beneficence  of  Hope, 

A  bud  even  frosts  leave  sappy 
And  sweet  with  dews  from  Heavens  cope; 
New  Years  are  always  happy. 


Liken ’‘chill  and  a  lever” — love  is  just  a  disease, 
Say  the  wisest  Doctors  vvlio’ve  studied  the  ill: 
And  their  diagnosis  with  mine  quite  agrees, 
Only  llrst  Comes  the  fever  and  later  the  chil. 


19 


SNOW  DROPS  VERSUS  DROPS  OF  SNOW! 
(A  Florida  Valentine.) 

Saint  Valentine  of  old,  ’tis  said,— 
Be-headed,  that  is— “lost  his  head”; 

When  warmly  wooing  fickle  Fairs, 

’Tis  sure  all  lovers  must  lose  theirs: 

Hence  lovers,  who  propose  or  pine; 

As  Patron  Saint  chose  Valentine; 

A  headless  Saint  most  surely  fit 
For  Wooers—,  sweetly  lacking  wit. 

Indeed  were  this  Saint  wise  and  witty 
Not  long  he’d  abide  in  New  York  City, 

At  least  while  blizzards  daily  sent 
To  double— “Winter’s  Discontent,”— 

Our  shores  can  show  you  painted  Conks 
Brighter  than  blooms  in  all  the  Bronx; 
Saint  John  here,  too,  can  posies  pick  us 
Unmatched  in  any  Hortus  Siccus. 

Why  stay  to  woo  some  frigid  maid 
Where  rose  and  lily  fall  and  fade? 

Come  breathe  our  breezes  sun-lit  balm 
Beneath  green  Parasols  of  Palm. 

Our  groves  are  green,  our  gardens  gay, 

Tho’  yours  reluctant  still  in  May; 

Our  dainty  Snow-drops  bud  and  blow 
When  you  have  only  Drops  of  Snow. 

This  day  up  North  brings  drifted  snows, 

But  here  we  pluck  the-Daily  Rose; 
Sheltered  beneath  green  Palm  and  Pine, 
Down  South  we  greet-Saint  Valentine. 


20 


WHISPER  LOW! 

(The  River  of  Dreams.) 

In  the  dim  land  of  drowsing  and  dreaming, 
At  dark  when  the  winds  crisper  blow, 

Lo,  the  light  where  far  ripples  are  gleaming 
On  the  River  of  Rest— Wisperlo. 

Whisper  low— whisper  low— whisper  lower, 
Thus  it  winds  thro’  the  woodlands  away, 

Thro’  fields  never  sown  by  a  sower, 

Thro’  wilds  where  no  wanderers  stray. 

No  castles  show  gray  on  the  ridges, 

No  cottages  down  in  the  dales. 

It’s  banks  over  arched  by  no  bridges, 

No  villages  cumber  its  vales. 

It’s  sluggish  tides  never  keep  turning 
The  wheels  of  Wealth’s  merciless  Mills, 

Where  limpingly  Labor  is  learning 
Life’s  lore,  and  the  lesson  that  kills. 

No  palaces  gilded  or  golden 
Where  the  Princes  of  Piracy  dwell, 

No  spires,  time-honored  and  olden, 

Where  Priests  serve  the  Devil  so  well. 

Wisperlo-  is  a  dark  flowing  river, 

Winding  far  thro’  a  desert  of  dreams; 

It’s  ripples  that  silvering  quiver 
A  Lethe  for  life  and  its  schemes. 

It  is  cradled  in  hills,  not  Highlands, 

From  lost  Lowlands  it  lapses  to  seas 

Where  shores  are  black  belted  by  islands 
Unswept  by  the  breath  of  a  breeze. 


21 


A  land  of  shores  dim  and  uncertain. 

Phantom  beaches  and  far-fading  capes— 
That  drifting  clouds  cap  -or  uncurtain, 

A  wild  land  of  weird  shifting  shapes. 

In  the  dusk,  when  the  breezes  blow  crisper. 

And  her  harvest  of  stars  Night  shall  show, 

In  this  lost  Land  of  Dreams— hark  the  whisper 
Of  this  River  of  Rest--Wisperlo. 

Thro’  a  dim  land,  where  twilight  is  falling, 

As  rose  petals  fall  after  frost, 

Faint  echoes  of  old  hopes  seem  calling 
To  hearts  in  life’s  gray  gloaming  lost. 

Beyond  the  wide  reach  of  the  levels 
Of  a  land  that  is  sombre  and  sere, 

Like  the  song  of  a  mad  Sea  that  revels— 

In  storms,— are  the  chaunts  that  I  hear. 

’Tis  the  sigh  of  the  surges,  that  wailing 
Wait  and  watch  for  the  Ending  they  know, 
When  Shadow  Ships  ever  go  sailing 
Down  the  darkness  of  dim  Wisperlo. 

Where  Life  is  a  lesson  forgotten, 

And  Love  is  a  legend  untold, 

Where  the  Barrens  of  Death  are  begotten, 

And  Winds  of  the  Waste  blowing  cold. 

Lo,  the  whispering  River  that  never— 

Again  shall  leave  memory  free, 

Till  its  dusky  tides  vanish  forever 

In  dumb  depths  of  the  measureless  Sea. 

March  28  1906 


22 


LIVING  IN  CLOVER ! 

You  may  rave  about  ripe  Roses, 

And  the  Lily’s  queenly  graces, 

B  it  give  me  rustic  posies 

Growing  wild  in  woodland  places. 

And  when  the  days  grow  fairer, 

And  the  thunder-showers  loom, 

Where  are  gardens  rich  and  rarer 
Than  the  Clover-fields  in  bloom? 

Oh,  the  Clover,  purpling  Clover, 

Where  the  bees  are  humming  through, 
When  the  Wintry  winds  are  over, 

And  the  skies  a  blaze  of  blue. 

Keep  your  Lilies  for  pale  ladles, 

And  your  Roses  for  proud  queens, 

But  for  me  the  woods  where  shade  is,  , 
And  gay  blossoms  midst  the  greens. — 

The  Violets  in  the  hedges, 

Blue  Gentians  by  the  streams. 

And  in  the  woodland  edges 

All  the  blossoms  of  Hope's  dreams. 

And  when  the  Sunset  trailing 
Long  shadows  on  the  grass, 

And  the  Golden  Day  is  paling 
Like  forgotten  loves  that  pass  ; 

Then  by  some  green  field  sloping 
Twilight  stars  are  shining  over, 

Here’s  a  “night-cap”  to  you,  hoping 
You  may  laugh,  and  Live  in  Clover ! 


N 


23 


THE  OLD-FASHIONED  GIRL! 

I:  the  True.  Girl,  but  the  New  Girl 
Is  the  popular  fad  now  ; 

|  i’s  ashamed  of  her  mother, 

Always  shocked  at  her  Dad  now  ; 
fact  the  old  folks  are 
Discreetly  kept  hidden  , 
st  her  beaux  should  discover 
Old  fashions  forbidden  : — 
t  as  for  me,  tho’  it  may  prove  me  a  churl, 

I  confess  I  prefer  still — the  Old-fashioned  Girl. 

e  New  Girl  can  lead  you 
A  dance  when  she  chooses, 
id  a  round  dance  quite  sure 
She  never  refuses  : — 
you  doubt  that  your  head 
Can  be  turned  in  a  minute, 
st  risk  a  wild  Walk 
And  you’ll  soon  find  you’re  in  it : 

;t  despite  the  delights  of  this  wonderful  whirl, 
onfess  I  prefer  still— the  Old-fashioned  Girl. 

i  a  drive  in  a  buggy 

When  two  mean  close  squeezing, 
l  confess  the  New  Girl 
Is  prodigiously  pleasing, 

>r  she’s  not  a  bit  shy. 

And  puts  blindly  reliance 
what  some  might  well  call 
An  “entangling  alliance”; 
jt  despite  her  attractions  that  make  my  head  whirl, 
y  faith  I  pin  still— to  the  Old-fashioned  Girl. 


/ 


24 


Yes,  the  Old-fashioned  Girl, 

Not  so  rapid  and  rushing, 

Who  has  not  quite  forgotten — 

The  secret  of  blushing  ; 

The  Old-fashioned  Girl 

Quite  content  with  one  lover, 

Not  prying  and  trying — 

New  beaux  to  discover ; 

Tho’  no  doubt  this  fast  fair  one,  a  peach  and  a  pear 
Far  safer  and  sweeter  the — Old-fashioned  Girl. 

The  Old-fashioned  Girl 

Who  is  sterling  and  steady, 

The  Old-fashioned  Girl 

Who’s  romantic  and  ready 
To  run  away,  not 

With  the  last  man  she  knew. 

But  still  to  her  first 

Girlish  fancy  quite  true 
When  round  her  my  arms  I  so  lovingly  furl, 

You  just  bet  I’ll  hold  fast  to  my — Old-fashioned  Girl 


I  would  you  were  a  Drop  of  Dew, 
And  I  a  Beam  from  yonder  Sun, 
No  other  lips  could  sip  of  you, 
Believe  me,  after  I  had  done. 


Love  makes  that  Lamester  Time  pass  swiftly  by 
A  pastime  sweet,  no  lover  would  deny  : 

But  every  year  leaves  some  hopes  dead,  alas, 
And  vengeful  Time,  in  turn,  makes  love,  too, 
pass. 


25 

THE  WINTER’S  WORTH! 

ly  what  you  will  of  Summer’s  Rose, 

Of  leafing  trees,  or  birds  that  sing, 
hs  Winter— winnows  from  his  Snows 
The  gifts  that  gladden  every  Spring! 


rl 


he  wildest  winds  that  sweep  the  seas 
Are  those  that  nerve  the  bravest  souls, 
nd  Love  foregoes  Life’s  noblest  pleas 
Where  only  pallid  Peace  controls. 


Tis  when  the  Storm  most  fiercely  beats, 

And  threatening  waves  would  overwhelm 
’here  ’mid  the  wreck  of  sinking  fleets, 

First  the  True  Pilot  finds  the  helm, 

lay  what  you  will,  'tis  not  the  days 

When  Joy  fills  high  the  brimming  bowl, 
But  when  War’s  lethal  llghtenings  blaze 
The  Hero— searching — finds  his  soul. 


The  South  Winds’  balmy  breath  may  bring 
The  fragrance  of  a  thousand  flowers, 

But  ’tis  the  North  Winds’  bolder  wing 

That  soars  to  realms  where  Glory  towers. 


Forget  the  golden  days  of  June 

When  Joy  led  Justice  far  astray, 

And  listen  to  the  wilder  rune 

The  wintry  winds  shall  chaunt  to-day. 

No  ‘‘Winter  of  sad  Discontent” 

Is  this,  but  days  of  Stern— yet  Strong  ; 

Ne.  Easter  Tide,  but  such  a  Lent 

As  bravely  teaches  Right  from  Wrong. 

And  tho’  we  pluck  no  blushing  Rose, 

Nor  hearken  to  glad  birds  that  sing, 

’Tis  Winter  winnows  from  his  Snows 
The  gift*  that  gladdep  every  Spring! 


LYCE! 


Had  you  quaffed  at  the  Springs  of  the  Don 
Where  it  flows  through  the  wiids  cold  and  icy, 
With  your  cheek  like  the  snow,  and  your  blood  like 
its  flow, 

You  scarcely  could  colder  be,  Lyce. 

Hark,  your  bolted  door  shakes  in  the  blast 
That  strips  the  last  leaves  from  your  garden; 

Here  I  stand  and  implore  for  a  kiss,  nothing  more, 
And  your  heart  must  be  cold  if  it  harden. 

Nay,  the  Venus  of  Milo,  in  stone, 

Would  scarcely  show  such  a  cold  shoulder; 

Lyce,  open  your  door  to  the  graces  once  more 
E’er  the  past  and  its  memories  moulder. 

Art  thou  proof  against  presents  and  prayers? 

Shall  an  old  lover  lack  for  scant  pity? 

Pierian  of  old,  as  this  wind  thou  art  cold, 

Grown  the  frostiest  flirt  in  the  city. 

Were  thy  heart  like  the  heart  of  an  oak, 

Were  thy  blood  as  a  serpent's,  remember 
That  Juno  herself  would  not  keep  a  pooiielf 
Dancing  thus  at  her  door  in  December. 

THE  TEMPEST’S  TEST. 

I  love  the  gloom  of  sunless  skies 

Where  not  one  glimpse  of  iJeaven’s  blue  eyes 

Foretell  Love’s  benediction; 

Through  shifting  shadows  dark  and  dim, 

When  all  the  world  seems  gray  and  grim,  , 

‘Tis  then  that  stern  conviction, 

Unlured  by  Fancy’s  frolic  course, 

Finds  time  to  gather  faith  and  force, 

Unwon  by  Hope’s  seductive  song. 

Measurers  the  depths  of  Right  and  Wrong. 
When  skies  are  clear  and  sunbeams  sift 
Down  Life’s  wide  stream — we  aimless  drift, 
But,  when  the  waves  would  overwhelm, 

First  the  true  Pilot  hods  the  helm, 


27 

THE  ROSE  LOVER  ! 

For  me  too  high  the  stars  above, 

The  Pearls  too  deep  below, 

Half-way  T  find  my  earthly  love 
In  vales  where  roses  grow. 

The  towering  heights  are  cold  and  hare, 
Cloud-caped”,  and  crowned  with  snows, 

But  when  in  woodland  paths  I  fare 
I  find  the  budding  Rose. 

And  if  there  be  some  hidden  thorns 
About  her  beauty  set, 

Their  prudish  sharpness  wisely  warns 
The  passions  that  forget. 

And  thus  my  blushing  beauty  keeps 
Her  fragrance  hidden  still, 

Until  when  first  the  moonlight  peeps 
Above  the  woodland  hill ; — 

I,  stealing  down  by  silent  ways, 

Surprise  tier  e’er  she  knows  ; 

The  Lily  let  her  lovers  praise, 

But  I  shall  love— the  Rose. 

The  Rose— whose  thorns  all  others  daunt, 
Set  sharp  when  rivals  woo, 

But  guard  the  graces  that  enchant 
One  lover  tried  and  true. 

I  seek  no  Stars  in  alien  skies 
No  Pearls  in  stormy  Seas; 

And  when  at  last  my  Sweet  Rose  dies, 
Should  Heaven  hear  my  pleas;— 

Find  me  beneath  the  woodlands  gray 
A  couch  for  soft  repose, 

Where,  if  the  Gods  be  good,  I  may 
Sleep— dreaming  of  my  Rose. 


28 


DIOK  AND  THE  DEVIL  ! 

The  Devil  came  to  digger  Dick, 

And  claimed  that  he  must  have  his  pick 

Of  all  the  crops  that  he  plowed  or  planted; 
And  knowing  it  were  vain  to  kick 
Against  the  mandates  of  Old  Nick, 

Dick  straight  replies:  ’Tis  granted  ! 

But  still  you’ll  own  ’tis  only  fair 
To  say  what  half  shall  be  your  share, 

Above  God’s  ground,  or  under  it? 

The  Devil  said  at  once  :  *The  top;’ 

So  Dick  potatoes  chose  as  crop, 

Which  left  the  Devil  not  a  bit. 

The  Devil  seeing  now  bis  blunder, 

Next  claimed  all  crops  he  might  find  under 
Good  ground,  and  Dick  this  claim  to^meet 
Put  in  a  sowing  of  wheat. 

At  harvest  time  returned  Old  Nick 
Expecting  now  a  better  — half, 

Yet  got  the  roots  and  not  the  rick, 

Which  surely  made  the  angels  laugh. 


Unless  you  wisely  plan  the  way 
You’ll  surely  find  the  ‘‘devil’s  to  pay” 

For  any  trading  with  Old  Nick; 

But  still  theres  truth  in  our  fable 
An  honest  man  is  always  able 

To  trump  the  Devil’s  sharpest  trick. 


29 

THE  DAILY  COACH  ! 


in’s  life  is  like  a  Daily  Coach, 

That  goes  up  hill  and  down  dale — travelling, 
le  load  oft  heavy,  heaven  knows, 

But  what’s  the  use  of  crusty  cavilling? 
ir  Driver  surely  knows  the  way 
id  wPl  not  go  too  far  astray,— 
id  if  some  tired  Tramp  you  meet, 
hy  give  the  poor  chap  half  a  seat. 

)n’t  let  life’s  worries  wear  and  warp 
Your  soul,  my  friend,  too  early, 

,roid  the  road  to  Grumble  Thorp, 

Where  all  are  sour  and  surly  ; 
m’t  give  old  Double-tongue  a  lift 
Should  you  by  mischance  meet  him, 
it  should  you  lind  poor  Love  adrift, 

Why,  take  him  in  and  greet  him. 

lould  you  pass  Lords  and  Ladies  gay 

In  chariots  out  airing, 

ield  willingly  the  wider  way, 

Theres  road  enough  for  sharing; 
or  envy  fools  a  fortune  spent, — 

Worth  is  not  rank  or  riches  ; 
o  wealth  buys  friendship  or  content, 

And  Dukes  may  die  in  ditches. 

save  Luck  his  gilded  coach-and-four 
To  hold  the  haughty  highway, 

Tien  silly  Pride  and  Pomp  approach, 

Far  better  take  a  by-way 


30 


Not  where  the  painted  Palace  stands 
Shall  hearts  find  happy  shelter, 

But  far  afield  in  leafy  lands  % 
There’s  kindness  in  good  kelter. 

So  drive  your  road,  the  lightest  load 
The  lightest  heart  oft  carries; 

With  modest  gains,  go  seldom  pains, 
And  Hatred  seldom  tarries 
In  Homes  where  Envy  finds  lean  fare, 
By  Power  and  Pelf  untempted 
Of  hopes  you’ll  house  a  double  share, 
And  half  your  sins  exempted. 


A  Lie  may  start  with  barely  an  inch, 

But  wait  and  with  even  an  Ell : 

And  when  it  comes  at  last  to  the  pinch, 

It  would  take  the  Devil  to  tell 
The  difference  between  the  birth  of  it 
And  the  honest  weight  and  worth  of  it. 


Behold  the  Lilies  of  the  field,  they  never  toil 
or  spin, 

(So  said  the  Lord)  and  Solomon  could  hardly 
equal  these  ; 

Yet  now  the  Sour  Saints  denounce  my  idleness 
as  sin , 

Tho’  like  these  Lilies  of  the  Lord,  I  merely 
take  my  ease ! 


“Man  needs  but  little  here  below”, 
But  when  he  pays  the  price, 
Surely  a  wise  God  ought  to  know, 
fie— wants  that  Little  Nice  J 


3* 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  SEA  ! 

have  wandered  from  the  Highlands, 
When  the  brooklet  sings  its  glees, 
'o  the  dusky,  white-beached  islands 
By  the  shores  of  shining  Seas. 

have  roamed  far  from  the  verges 
Of  the  Up-lands  leafy  vales, 

Co  where  across  the  surges  — 

(Beam  afar  the  sun-lit  sails. 

have  left  the  rocky  ledges 
Of  the  ridges  that  I  knew, 
tnd  am  drifting  mid  the  sedges 
Where  the  water-lilies  grew. 

n  my  shallop  further  sailing 
I  reacVi  the  shoreless  Sea, 

Old  hear  the  stormy  wailing 

Of  the  waves  that  wait  for  nue. 

*  ^  * 

The  wanton  waves  are  wooing 
A  Rover  to  his  rest ; 
ijove,  alas,  is  life’s  undoing — 

When  a  Mermaid  is  your  guest, 

^  sea-Nymph  softly  sighing, 

Once  loved,  but  long  forgot, 

3ut  now  when  Day  is.  dying, 

She  lures  me  to  her  grot. 

farewell,  O,  Sunlit  Summits, 
Farewell,  0,  Vadeys  fair;-- 
Too  deep  for  any  plummets— 

My  love,  and  my  Despair. 


35 


HEROICS ! 

In  battle  ’taint  the  fight  in’ 

Hut  git  tin’  killed  what  flurries  me  : 

In  a  shower,  taint  the  rain  you  know, 
But  gittin’  wet  what  worries  me  ; 
’Taint  the  whiskey  what  T  mostly  miss, 
But  the  feelin’  fat  and  funny ; 

I  don’t  objec’  to  bein’  poor, 

But  what  I  mind’s  the — Money. 


I’d  never  cuss,  I’d  never  kick, 

Ef  things  was  allers  fair, 

An’  thr  Good  Lord  guv  me  just  the  pick  ; 

I  only  wants — rny  share. 

I  only  want  a  show'in’, 

Ef  it’s  jorum,  jupe  or  jig; 

When  the  pan  begins  a  fryin’ 

I  wants  my  slice  of  pig, 

A  bit  of  all  thats  goin’, 

The  Beetle  an’  the  Big. 

I  don’t  care  how7  you  share  ’em, 

Ef  you’ll  allers  share  ’em  so  t 

As  I  gits  jes  what  1  wanted 
In  this  little  Wale  uv  Woe. 

Tho’  I  ain’t  no  Saint  a  tryin’ 

To  guv  the  Lord  a  show, 

Yet  I  ain’t  afeerd  of  uv  dyin’ 

(Not  in  battle— but  in  bed) 

Ef  it  wasen’t  them  pesky  chances 
Uv  stayin’— so  long— dead. 

In  fack,  ter  paint  the  picter, 

An’  guv  you  all  the  fax, 

I  wants  ter  git  the  INCOME. 

But— I  hates  ter  pay  the  TAX! 


— Creesus  Joans 


A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  ROSES  ! 


fhite  roses  on  her  breast, 

Tea-roses  in  her  hair, 

Led  roses  softly  rest 

On  her  cheeks  blushing,  where 
Lisses  I  press  so  oft 

Though  she  cries  shyly— hush! 
Whispering  low  and  soft 

Lest  that  white  rose  should  blush, 

.s  it  would  should  it  discover 
'hat.  this  lady  had  a  lover. 

White  roses  pale  as  pearls 

Pressed  to  her  beating  heart  , 
uddy  rose  that  unfurls 

When  her  glad  lips  impart 
lecrets  I  would  not  tell, 

Whispers  I  would  not  share 
veil  with  buds  that  fell 

Tossed  from  her  golden  hair; 
est  these  blossoms  might  betray  us, 
r  with  vengeful  thorns  delay  us. 

ea-roses  in  her  hair, 

.  White  roses  on  her  breast, 

!  re  they  not  whispering  there 
Secrets  that  L  >ve  confessed? 
i'et  when  those  lips  I  press 
Blushing  she  bids  me  go, 

|,est  that  fair  rose  should  guess 
Half  the  things  lovers  know, 
aid  my  burning  vows  she  hushes 
zest  these  blooms  should  read  her  blushes 


34 


Red  roses  ripe  and  rich, 

Matched  with  the  lips  I  press; 
Dainty  tea-roses  which 

Fetter’d  by  some  fair  tress 
Falling  in  golden  strands 

Down  on  her  bosom’s  snow, 
Where  some  bold  lover’s  hands 
Finds  where  white  roses  blow: 
Then  behold.  Love’s  lesson  learning, 
Every  blossom  crimson  turning. 


PIER  IS ! 

(SYLVESTER  BELLS.) 

Down,  where  the  valley’s  brooklet  gushes, 
Sweet  Rose,  bewitches  with  her  blushes 
In  all  comers  ; 

Fair  Lily,  too,  so  tall  and  slender, 

Hath  wooers  too  who  homage  render 
Through  sunlit  summers. 

But  not  your  gayest  garden  flowers 
Can  match  with  those  I  find  above 
On  the  high  summits  that  I  love, 

Buds  nursed  to  life  by  mountain  showers. 
There  on  the  lofty  heights  that  loom 
Above  the  blue  world  far  below  you, 
Pieris  fair  shall  proudly  show  you 
The  wonder  of  her  snows  in  bloom  ; 

Finer  than  all  your  heath  and  heather, 

A  thousand  milk  white  bells  together. 


35 

TIIE  REALM  OF  ROSES! 

The  New  Yen*  in  Florida  opens  like  Spring, 

In  wild  woodlands  the  violet  uncloses, 

No  wonder  by  moonlight  the  mockingbirds  sing 
In  this  wonderful  Realm  of  the  Roses. 

Where  over  the  roof-tree  the  white  ro  es  climb, 
And  red  roses  girdle  the  garden  ; 

Ah,  here  in  this  soft,  sunny,  sensuous  clime — 
Love  condemns  only  hearts  that  would 
harden. 

Like  the  mocking-bird,  lured  by  the  sunlight 
I  sing 

In  gardens  still  painted  with  posies, 

And  a  winterless  welcome  to  New  Year  1  bring 
In  Florida, —  Realm  of  the  Roses. 

If  sunbeams  should  fail  for  a  moment  to  shine 
Clouds  would  bring  out  a  thuncler-gust  pelt¬ 
ing, 

For  here  in  this  land  of  the  Palm  and  the  Pine, 
Even  Winter  lias  moods  that  are  melting. 

December  dies  out  like  a  sunset  of  gold, 

Give  him  farewells  half  sad  and  half  tender. 
But  welcome  to  the  Mew  Year,  whose  banners 
unrolled 

Almest  rival  the  mid-summer’s  splendor. 

Not  wrap’d  in  the  ermines  of  winter  he  comes, 
No  icy  winds  bat  tie  and  bluster; 

Nay  e’er  long  shall  the  snow  of  flowering  plums, 
And  the  blush  of  the  peach  gather  luster. 

For  here  in  fair  Florida’s  pine-pil hir’d  plain, 
With  maidens  to  guide  him,  not  Moses, 

The  Promised  Land  soon  shall  each  true  lover 
gain 

In  this  sun-cinctured  Realm  of  the  Roses, 


36 

THE  UNBIDDEN  GUEST! 


What  step  upon  my  threshold  falls? 

What  unknown  voice  is  this  that  calis? 

Too  late,  I’ll  not  unlock  my  gate 
What  e’er  befalls. 

Who  cometh  through  the  shadows  gray? 

If  wanderer  lost  or  reveller  gay, 

Belated  rover  day  is  over, 

Farewell  away  ! 

A  voice  ir)  accents  soft  replies: 

1  visit  men  in  various  guise, 

There  are  who  mime  niy  favors  Fame— 
Yet  tell  no  lies. 

And  others,  craven  hearts  are  these, 

Gall  me  Despair;  life’s  bitterest  lees 
They’d  rather  drain  in  pallid  pain 
Than  hear  my  pleas. 

Some  call  me  Darkness,  and  some — Doubt; 
Few  welcome  me  with  song  and  shout, 
Guay  hairs  or  gold,  the  young  or  old,  v 
W  ould  bar  me  out. 

Yet  there  are  some,  these  know  me  best, 
Who*  giving  welcome,  call  me— Rest; 

At  set  of  sun  why  should  they  shun 
A  silent  guest? 

And  there  are  souls  of  essence  fine 
That  call  me  Love,  and  bid  me  twine 
My  cypress  sprays  with  life’s  green  bays: 
Their  hearts  are  mine. 

But  whether  hut  or  whether  hall, 

Love’s  wicket  or  his  Lordship’s  wall, 

Doors  open  at  my  breath,  for  I  am  Death 
Who  comes  to  all. 


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